


so what do i do with this?

by finnick



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Lowercase, POV Second Person, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnick/pseuds/finnick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>stiles & erica bond in the moonlight, and stiles thinks about what scares him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so what do i do with this?

**Author's Note:**

> (title is from a vienna teng song; erica's backstory is from the tw: the hunt, an fb game that only stayed up for like 20 minutes after season 2 ended for some stupid reason. this is set at some point after 2.07 but i'm not exactly sure when. i'm hella nervous about posting this but yolo.)

“my mother left me,” she says in the aftermath one night. “not like yours, but she left. i don’t know why. i don’t know what i did. she won’t even look at me, stiles. not since i was 12. not since the seizures started. i thought she would now, since i’m… better, but.” she trails off, shrugs. “it doesn’t seem to matter to her. turns out the problem was me, not the epilepsy.” she laughs; it’s bitter.

she’s splayed out on your bed with nothing on but the moonlight. she’s flushed and the bruises left behind by your mouth, her bruised and kiss-swollen lips, and the crescent-marks of your nails on her hips don’t seem to be affected by any werewolf healing yet. she could rip your throat out with her bare hands and as long as she looked like this: vulnerable, real, yours, you would let her. the thought makes you self-conscious. your hand comes up to cup your throat and you rub the jut of your adam’s apple, trying to remind yourself of what’s really important: your body staying intact, being able to breathe, keeping yourself from falling in love with her. she’s dangerous, you think, in more ways than one. she could kill you, yes, destroy you, maim you, rip you to shreds without blinking an eye - but she could save you, and that’s scarier. it’s hard to keep yourself from telling her to leave.

she sits up and turns to look at you, drawing her knees to her chest.

“did you hear me? stiles?” she asks, her voice soft.

you don’t have to look at her to picture her expression: brown eyes unfocused, scared to see your face, heavy eyeliner smudged from sweat and kisses, her pouty lips parted just slightly, stained pink from the residue of blood red lipstick. you can’t help but glance at her though, and my god, you wish you hadn’t. she looks like what you expected and worse, because she’s looking at you.

it’s that same face she always gives you, like she trusts you. your mouth is sucked dry again. you tilt your chin so you’re not looking at her, gazing instead at a stray streak of moonlight shining in your window.

from the corner of your eyes, you see her looking at the pictures on your shelves, on the dark eyes, pale skin, and brown hair you inherited from your mother – back when she loved you, before she saw what you were. you see the weight of her mother’s absence settled in at the top of her spine, heavy and almost too much for her to bear. her knees are pulled up to her chest and her arms are around them, her shoulders curled in tight. her hair falls in loose golden curls, spilling into your bed like the morning sun, cascading down her back and emphasizing the ridges of her spine and the curves of her waist, soft and inviting and perfect for your hands to mold against. your fingers ache to touch her skin, to trace the map of her freckles, to twist into the mess of her hair and stay there until your bodies converge, somehow, until you’re a part of her and she’s a part of you and she’s never alone again. but you can’t, not now. not when she’s like this.

she seems smaller like this, not like the girl who slams you against walls. or feels your best friend up in front of you. or threatens one of your incredibly few friends. or gets tangled up with people like he-who-shall-not-be-named, the bringer of darkness to beacon hills. or hits you with things – parts of your own car, like some kind of maniac.

you wish she would hit you. you wish she would yell at you. you wish she would tell you that it was your fault somehow, that if you’d noticed her sooner she wouldn’t be like this, that if you’d been there for her when she was younger she wouldn’t have had to carry her pain alone for so long. you wish she would blame you. you wish that she would hate you. you wish she would do anything other than look at you because underneath the fire of resentment in her eyes, there’s pain, fear, need; a mirror, almost.

you wish she would stop looking at you like you’re a hero. you’re not a fucking hero. she can’t depend on you. you can’t even depend on you. your hands are shaking. you pretend you didn’t hear her again. you try to think of how you’re going to get her out of your bed, out of your house, out of your life, out of you. you can still feel everywhere she touched, aching like burns, her fingerprints seared into your flesh. she’s never gentle, her touch is never easy. any time her hands are on you it’s a lightning strike – claws always extending, because she can’t control herself around you, and the tips of her fingers press into your skin like she wants to leave indents behind, like she wants whoever touches you next to feel her, to trace your skin with their fingers and read her there like hieroglyphics. she wants to etch herself into your history forever. you wonder what it means if she’s already there, if the book of you begins and ends with her now.

you don’t have to look at her to feel her coming, the weight of her body shifting toward yours something you welcome now, against your own will. your body adjusts to catch her, to cradle hers and protect it. you feel a tingling heat pool in your stomach, something like butterflies, anticipation climbing up your spine and settling into your chest, making your frail human heart hammer against your sternum like a war drum. familiar fingers sprawl over your goosebumped flesh, and you melt. you're hers.

“i know,” you reply, your voice somehow even softer than her fingertips ghosting over your stomach and chest, finding your heartbeat. pressing in. you see her settle when she feels it, how knowing you’re alive and there brings her peace. it makes your mouth dry. you’ve never wanted to be anywhere less. you wrap your arms around her and kiss the top of her head, pull her against your body. you try to ignore how small she feels there, how her head finds the crook of your neck and her fingers curl around your shoulder, drawing you closer to her. she presses against you like she just can’t get close enough, but she’s close enough. she’s close enough that you can’t breathe around your heart, that you can’t remember what it’s like to not feel. you feel everything when she’s with you. she fits you like nothing ever has before. one arm stays around her waist but the other comes up, sprawls over her back, makes its way up her spine to the place where she carries her pain, where insults and jeering and missed doctor’s appointments and unsigned permission slips and no one looking for her and the way you never saw her until it was too late to save her stays call home, and its fingers press in, rubbing gentle circles, trying to coax it out of her.

you want to absorb it, want to take every ounce of her pain. your shoulders throb from your own weight, but you’d kill a man to take hers. you’d kill for her. (part of you knows you’d kill for less, too, but the call of the darkness is less strong when she’s in your arms; she saves you, calls you home, scares the hell of you.)

“we should sleep, erica,” you say. your voice is husky and unfamiliar.

she pulls back from your shoulder just enough to press her lips against it, gentle pecks that go from mole to mole, connecting the constellations of your skin. you think she could do the same with all the pieces of you, probably, make you whole and beautiful again. you think of how you’d wanted to do the same to her before, how badly you want to do the same thing to her now, and you smile. you read on a snapple cap when you were 12 that showing your teeth to a gorilla was a sign of surrender, but you think from the way she smiles back at you, soft and sad and sweet, that it’s probably not the same for wolves. or girls. and especially not your wolf girl.

your mouth finds her forehead and you say it again, “we should sleep.”

she laughs this time, and you feel the pressure in her spine let up. your own feels a bit heavier, you think, but you don’t care.

“we’re not going to,” she replies, with a mischief in her voice that makes the fire in your stomach flare up, makes it lap at your heart.

you kiss down her nose to her mouth, press your lips to hers without really kissing her and just breathe for a few seconds, letting yourself soak up how she feels, then you press in more, so hard and sudden you think you might make her mouth bleed (again,) grinning against her mouth when she gasps, a barely audible little sound that you’re almost certain actually _is_ a wolf girl’s sign of surrender, all for you. she calls off the guards of her heart when you're there, shows you her insides, her soft spots, and you want to bury yourself in them to stay. just let your jagged edges catch, tie you there for good, let you drown in the fierce fire she carries inside of her, the only one to ever rival your own. you kiss over her jaw and down to her neck, finding where you would have sworn you left your mark before, and set to work on leaving it all over again. downside #1 to a werewolf: the marks don't stay. probably the only downside, you think, because you haven't found any others yet. maybe that she can always tell when you lie. maybe that you have no choice but to let her see you without restraint, without something to keep you safe from her.

“i know,” you whisper back, as her claws start to scrape over your skin, always teasing but never digging in.

you wish they would. you wish she would rip you to shreds. it would be less scary than the serenity being so close brings. it would be less scary than how you can see yourself doing this forever, laying in a spacious bed with erica reyes on top of you and the rest of the world forgotten.

it would be less scary than being in love with her.

but her mouth is on your neck like a moth to a flame, searching out the spots she always marked, the ones discolored and always just a little bit sore, raw, and you let yourself sink into the warmth between her thighs for the thousandth time, and you lie because you tell yourself you're not drowning.


End file.
